


i'm undone

by birdcagereligion (ckasjfbfksbj)



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers
Genre: Crossover, F/M, I'm Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:03:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckasjfbfksbj/pseuds/birdcagereligion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As she steps forward, he pulls the trigger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm undone

When he walks into his hotel room after a long day of dealing with Ethan’s crap, he expects to remove his shoes, change his clothes, take a shower, and a long nap. 

What he doesn’t expect though, is to have a small redheaded woman sitting on his bed.

She doesn’t look threatening, she is small and thin, she looks tired and worn, as if she hasn’t slept in days, but he knows that looks can be deceiving, and warns himself not to get too close to her.

She stands, and he puts his hands behind his back, where his gun sits tucked into the back of his pants, the next moments pass in a blur.

She inches closer, and calls him Clint, it’s like the world stops for a moment, and all he can see are her wrapping her thighs around a man’s head and snapping his neck, a smile on his face, and the weight of a bow in his hands but he snaps back to reality and the angel he saw is not this woman before him, so he holds out his gun. Suddenly it feels wrong, too small and useless, and he asks her who she is.

She smirks and says, “You know who I am.” As she steps forward, he pulls the trigger.

 

-

She dodges the bullet of course, like he knew she would, and before he can blink she has him on his back, her thighs clenching his waist, her thin hands holding his wrists together above his head

She looks down on him, a grim and all-too-familiar look on her face, and says with an icy tone, “Now that wasn’t very nice.”

This strange woman – an N, he thinks, her name starts with an N – straddling him, her warm breath brushing his face, feels right, and yet it can’t be; for how can you feel for someone you have never met?

“I’m here to bring you home.” Slowly, as she feels his body relax beneath hers, she releases his hands and loosens her grip on his waist; together they right themselves and stand facing each other: him without his gun and her able to kill him at any moment.

“I don’t have a home,” he says, feeling the weight of the words on his mind, hating how true they were.

She smirks again and his hand itches for his gun. “Now that’s something we both know isn’t true.”

-

“Who are you?” he asks again. She smiles, warmer this time, as if some of her ice had melted.

“There’s time for that later,” she reaches onto the floor and hands him his gun. “Now, we need to get out of here as quickly as possible.” Brandt – no, not Brandt, but Clint; his name is Clint – doesn’t question her even though he aches to do so. He senses the urgency behind her words and moves as fast as he can.

She throws a bag at him. He unzips it and inside is a set of dark clothes and an arsenal of weapons. “Put them on,” she instructs, pulling her shirt over her head.

He does so without question, turning his back to allow her some privacy and when he turns back to her, she’s wearing a black cat suit that fits in all the right places and gets his heart racing. “Eyes front, Agent. We need you on your toes. This could get dirty.” The glint in her eyes scares him as much as it excites him, and when he pulls out a bow from the bag it somehow feels right.

“Who are you?” he asks one last time, not really expecting an answer, but wishing to call her something other than ‘that woman’.

She looks at him and a small smile crosses her lips. Her hand reaches up as if to touch his face before she catches herself, her expression turning grim as she pulls her hand back to her side quickly. “You can call me Widow,” she says briskly before turning away from him.

“And why should I trust you?”

There’s the sound of men running down the hall outside the door and hushed voices whispering. They both hold up their weapons: him his bow; her, her gloved fists.

“Why shouldn’t you?” Immediately, a list comes to mind, starting with ‘I don’t know who you are’ and ending with ‘You just don’t trust pretty redheads who can pin you to the ground in less than a second’, but he feels that this is right, that he should trust her, and he had always been a man who follows his instincts.

The door bursts inward and the fight begins. He lets an arrow go and watches as it hits a man between the eyes, his limp body crumpling to the floor. It should disgust him, taking a life so quickly; even as an agent he had always felt a slight twinge of regret as he killed even the worst of men, but the burst of adrenaline and pure excitement that soon follow drown out any remorse he feels.

Widow, he thinks as she launches herself at a man and twists his head so that his blank eyes stare at the wall behind him. It fits.

-

The fight itself isn’t nearly as eventful as the moments leading up to it. In fact, one could even call it boring. He aims his bow and takes down as many men as he can from a distance while the woman takes care of the ones he misses.

Soon, much sooner than he had expected, they are outside on the roof. She calls for an extraction on a hologram device built into one of her bracelets as he barricades the door using some strange goo she hands him.

“I have him. We need an air lift.” A small voice answers her and she frowns. “No Tony, I won’t do that. “The voice speaks again, much louder this time, and her frown deepens. “Because I am a professional.” She sighs as he continues speaking. “Just send the Hulk if you’re so busy, I really don’t care; we just need to leave as soon as possible.”

She turns and catches him staring at her, “Now’s a good time to ask me who I am.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow. I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. shadow and an honorary Avenger. I was sent here to bring you back to base to extract as much information as possible out of you.” As she speaks, she moves closer to him, and soon she is within an arm’s reach of him. His fingers twitch with the need to reach out and touch her: the suit, her hair, her skin, it doesn’t matter as long as it’s a part of her. “Now ask who you are.”

“Who am I?” he asks, and she steps forward, crossing that small space between them, standing mere inches away from him. The warmth of her lithe body is as familiar to him as holding a bow or breaking a man’s neck.

“Your name is Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye. You’re a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, also an Avenger. You were taken by an unknown agency and brainwashed into thinking that you’re William Brandt. I’ve been looking for you for months, Agent Barton.” His hands snake forward and grab her arms. Natasha, he thinks, her name is Natasha. “Now ask me who I am to you.”

“Everything,” he whispers and presses his lips to hers.

Above them, a man – Tony, he assumes, from the way Natasha tenses up under his hands – shouts, “Wow Romanoff, you really don’t waste any time do you?”

Natasha sighs into his mouth, and Clint knows he is where he’s meant to be.


End file.
